


A New Dream

by Comedia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bilbo is Eugene, I Don't Even Know, Like, M/M, Tangled AU, Thorin is Rapunzel, magical glowing beards, major character death but not really, not-so graphic depictions of violence, you know the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name is Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins." The water is reaching their necks by now, and meeting Bilbo's gaze it is obvious that the burglar is trying not to panic. "We are going to drown; you might as well know."</p><p>Thorin stutters, because he feels honored to have Bilbo trust him like this. In but a moment the cave will be completely submerged, and this will be his only chance to speak. Perhaps, he thinks, he will confess something of his own.</p><p>"I've got a magical beard that glows when I sing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a silly idea but turned into a serious project in a matter of seconds. I don’t know who I am anymore. Like. What even.  
> Also, I had to make a guess about Thorin’s age, but fifty seemed like a reasonable “coming of age” thing for dwarves. If I’m completely wrong, I’m sorry.

Thorin usually rises with the sun. The bright rays will reach his room at the top of the tower, illuminating the carven stone, and when he was younger this would not stir him from sleep, but for a few years now he cannot bring himself to stay in bed. Once he is awake it is the same old routine. He will get dressed in his worn out tunic, the thick blue cloth cowered in stitches from where he has mended it throughout the years.

Sometimes he wonders why he bothers dressing at all, considering how he will never receive any unexpected company. However, last time he did not dress his father was very upset, and with this in mind Thorin puts on a pair of dark brown pants and his boots, not wanting his father to have yet another aneurysm.

Having put his clothes on he will sweep the floors, do laundry if needed, and polish anything that needs to be brightened up. It is not like the tower is ever in need of much cleaning though. Every morning is more of the same, and most of the time he will get his chores done in a heartbeat. From that moment on the day is free for him to do with as he pleases, not that he can actually do much, being confined like this.

Sometimes he will read, although father does not bring him new books very often, and the ones Thorin does have tend to get a little repetitive. Ever since he got a few sheets with notes for his harp he has spent hours playing though, sometimes making lyrics up all on his own. It is quite silly, really, but he does take pride in his music, and every once in a while Thorin will sing to his father in the evenings, or rather; he will sing more songs than simply the _particular_ one.

Despite being so far away from his kinfolk he has spent endless days study the customs of dwarves, hoping to be able to behave himself properly once he is allowed to go outside. As soon as father leaves for the day he will practice Khuzdul; try to memorize tales from his books; and every once in a while he will attempt to cook dwarven meals. It is a shame father does not share in his enthusiasm, and more often than not he will be told that there are no more books to read – that the dwarves have barely mastered the ability to write. Thorin is not sure if he entirely believes his father, but most of the time he does not argue. Instead he treasures the information he does have, and studies it frequently.

The day goes on as he cooks, often eating his meals on his own by the window. Even though he cannot see much of the outside world, simply knowing that there are more people out there makes him feel less lonely. He has read so many stories; about people building towns and keeping gardens and exploring the oceans, and even though he has seen none of these things he often thinks of them.

No matter how he plans his days he will eventually run out of things to do. When he was a dwarfling he – ironically enough – did not grow this restless. The stories father told him of the outside world would scare him, and while they still do, he cannot help but feel that going out there would be entirely bad. Other people manage to live their lives just fine, and so should he. At least for a little while; at least long enough to have an adventure.

But he is stuck in the same place he has always been, and so he will comb his beard once he gets bored, spending the rest of the day sitting on the floor of his tower trying to sort through the rough wisps of hair. The bushy beard makes him appear much older than he actually is, the dark hairs being flecked with specks of grey.

Whenever he is patient enough to comb all of it through he will eventually encounter the curl of pitch-black hair, and although he cannot remember when it was cut, it is still a painful memory. It is a reminder of why he needs to stay hidden; the proof that the world is full of selfish people that wish to hurt him and his gift.

This, however, does not stop him from dreaming. He will sit there, brushing his beard as he studies the carvings on the wall – a complicated, interwoven piece he has been working on since he was a child – wondering when his life will actually begin.

Since he has been carving the stone throughout the years most of the walls are covered by reliefs and all kinds of patterns, and there is little room to create something new. Despite this, he has recently started on a new carving, dedicating the last of his free space to depicting the strange, glowing orbs that he has seen light up the evening sky once every year.

They always appear on his birthday, and he cannot help but think that they are somehow meant for him – despite the fact that the outside world should have forgotten about him long ago. For years it has been in the back of his mind, the thought that he is meant to go out there; to find the floating lights.

Thranduil will not approve of course, and a few years ago Thorin would listen to his father’s judgment, but he will turn fifty soon; he is ready to face the world and take care of himself.

Caught up in his thoughts he barely notices his father, and it is only when Thranduil raises his voice that he rushes up from the floor, dropping his brush while doing so.

“Thorin, I am not getting any younger down here.”  Looking out the window he sees father glaring up at the tower, impatiently tapping one foot. “Let down your beard!”

It is not easy work, hauling a beard of seventy feet around, but he has been doing it for as long as he can remember. Making sure his footing is steady he lets his beard down, spending the next few minutes pulling his father to the top of the tower.

Once Thranduil enters through the window he takes a look around, not commenting on the housework, and so Thorin assumes that he has done a good job.

“Welcome home, father.”

Thranduil offers him a thin smile at that, taking off his cape and hanging it on the frame of a nearby mirror. While his over garments may be modest, father always wears the finest of robes underneath. This day he is draped in silver and green, a long billowing robe fit for a king.

“Oh Thorin, I cannot imagine how you manage to do that every day without fail. It looks absolutely exhausting.”

At that Thorin can do nothing but mutter awkwardly, running a hand through his hair while he is trying to think of a way to mention his birthday without upsetting father. “It is nothing, really.”

“Then I do not know why it is taking so long.” Thorin is unsure of how to reply, as father says it with an even voice and stares at him for quite some time. The moment passes though, as Thranduil laughs happily and pats Thorin’s cheek as if he was a pet. “Do not worry son, I am just teasing.”

Thorin sighs. His father has always had a strange sense of humor, but at least he seems to be in a good mood.

“So, father.” When Thranduil turns his full attention to him he feels quite exposed, and he ends up fiddling with his beard, feeling the rough hairs entwine with his fingers. “Tomorrow is a big day, and I was thinking…”

Before he has the chance to actually mention the floating lights father hushes him. “Starlight, father’s feeling a little run down. Would you sing for me?”

And Thorin does not mention how he grew tired of that nickname ages ago. Instead he hurries to get a chair for father and hands him a brush. Once he is certain that Thranduil has started brushing his beard, he sings the incantation as quickly as possible, the words almost blurring together.

_“All-that-is-gold-does-not-glitter-not-all-those-who-wander-are-lost-the-old-that-is-strong-does-not-wither-deep-roots-are-not-reached-by-the-frost.”_

His beard starts to glow with the cold gleam of a starlit night, and father flinches as the magic rushes over him. He looks outright insulted. “Thorin!”

Thorin realizes that this might be his only chance to breach the subject, and so he rises to his feet, meeting his father’s gaze. “Father, I was trying to tell you, it is my birthday tomorrow. I am turning fifty – and what I want for this birthday, actually, what I have wanted for quite a few birthdays…”

He realizes that what was meant as a polite question is quickly turning into a stubborn rant, and so he starts mumbling before he manages to say something irreparable. Thranduil instantly notices. “Thorin, please, stop with the mumbling. We have talked about how I find it utterly annoying – I expect you to respect my wishes.”

When Thorin goes completely silent at that father lightens up a little, and he reaches out to pat Thorin’s chin affectionately. “I am just teasing son. Continue?”

And Thorin sometimes wonders how he ended up so different from his father, not only in appearance, but in personality as well. A lot of the time it seems like they are having two completely different conversations, even though they are talking to each-other.

“Father, I want to see the floating lights. I was hoping you would take me to see them.” His voice is strong and confident, because he has been patient for such a long time, and once he has found the words to express himself there is no stopping him. “They appear once every year on my birthday – _only_ on my birthday. I feel that they are meant for me, and I need to see them in person, father. Not just from my window. I have to know what they are.”

Thorin realizes that this is probably the closest he has ever come to begging. He was not even aware of how desperate he has been to go outside. Although being locked up has always bothered him he has tried to ignore his doubts – lingering on such uncomfortable thoughts would not do him any good anyway. But now he is laid bare, his desires could not be clearer.

Father contemplates him with a firm expression, and when he rises to his feet he towers above Thorin, authoritative with his grand gestures and flowing, golden hair.

"You want to go outside? Oh Thorin, are you aware of how ridiculous you sound?" One giant step and Thranduil is by his side, his hand light as he ruffles Thorin's hair. "You know that we stay up in this tower to keep you safe."

And Thorin sighs; as if he could ever forget. It is obvious that father – as always – has already made up his mind, but Thorin stubbornly continues speaking. "I know, but..."

Thranduil hushes him, a thin pale finger against his beard. "Father knows best. It is a scary world out there – you should heed my words."

Thorin would speak again, but he knows what his father is like once he gets started with one of his rants. "If you go out there something will go wrong, I am sure of it! Have I not told you about the trolls; the dragons; the orcs? There are halflings with pointy teeth, and do not get me started on the giant spiders. I get upset just thinking about it!"

However, father does not look upset at all. He grabs Thorin by the shoulders and hauls him to his feet, bringing him across the room only to put him in front of the mirror. "Just look at you! Naïve; immature; clumsy; and you are so gullible – they would eat you alive.” Raising one of his hands to stroke Thorin’s beard softly, Thranduil leans in to whisper in his ear. “That is why father will always offer you his help.”

And Thorin is ashamed to admit it, but Thranduil’s stories still frighten him. He can so easily imagine the horrors lurking out there, and with father’s hands resting on his shoulders he feels safe.

Looking at their reflection in the mirror like this he always feels out-of-place; father with his proud posture, endlessly tall with fair features – and Thorin, with his bulk and his beard and his curly, dark hair. Like this he looks to be the older one, the streaks of grey throughout his hair making it appear as if he has lived anything but a sheltered life.

“Thorin, I have but one request.” He does not get the chance to contemplate their differences any further, as father wraps him in his arms, offering a comforting embrace. “Do not ask to leave this tower again.”

He sighs, but cannot bring himself to argue further. It is obvious that father knows what he is talking about, and Thorin does not wish to upset him further. “Yes, father.”

At this Thranduil releases him, hurrying back to the window – only stopping for a brief moment to put on his cape. “If you ever forget, son, you will regret it.”

Thorin simply nods at that, joining his father by the window in order to let down his beard. Before leaving, Thranduil kneels before him in order to kiss his cheek. “I love you very much, son.”

This kind of farewells is tradition by now, and Thorin finds himself replying out of habit more than anything else. “I love you more.”

With gentle hands father grabs hold of his beard, and slowly descends to the ground. He is gone so quickly that Thorin can barely hear the whisper of _“I love you most.”_

When his father is out of sight he leans back against the windowsill, for once enjoying the loneliness of the tower.

His beard is now a complete mess again; sometimes he wonders why he bothers combing it in the first place. Sitting down in the middle of the room he stubbornly starts working it over, sorting out tangles and making sure it has not been dirtied.

He is busy brushing through the length of his beard when he hears a strange sound; it is unlike anything he has ever heard before. Dashing to the window he does not see anything out of order, until he looks straight down and sees a figure with curly hair climbing the tower.

There is a rush of fear as he realizes that he will have to deal with the intruder on his own – father is not around to help him now. Having already hurried away from the window he has forsaken the chance of getting a good look at the creature; all he knows is that it has curly, dirty-brown hair, and climbs at an alarming speed.

Gathering up his beard in both arms he runs to the kitchen, desperate to find a heavy object. When he picks up the frying pan he feels fairly pathetic – surely the stranger will laugh at him trying to defend himself with a utensil. He does not have much of a choice though.

Rushing back into the room he tries to find someplace to hide, and he ends up cowering behind the throne-like chair his father likes to lounge in. The intruder falls in through the window only seconds later.

The creature is not very tall, but it does not seem to have much of a bulk either, so it cannot possibly be a dwarf. When it stumbles to its feet and looks around the room Thorin notices the hairy feet, and realizes that the stranger is a halfling. The world he has read about is slowly coming to life right before his eyes, and for a moment he is too fascinated to be scared. Then he remembers father’s words of curly haired creatures with sharp teeth, and he tightens his grip on the frying pan.

The halfling seems to be occupied looking through its belongings, holding up a satchel and rummaging through it, and this might be Thorin’s only opportunity to act; if he does not, all kinds of horrible things could happen. He ignores his curiosity and sneaks up behind the creature, hitting it hard on the head with the frying pan. It goes down instantly, falling face down on the floor with a loud thump.

Thorin takes a deep breath, but he is not certain that he’s safe yet. Kneeling by the halfling he uses the frying pan to poke at it, and gets no response. It seems like the intruder is completely unconscious, so he gets a little bolder with his exploration, parting the creatures lips with the shaft of the frying pan in order to get a good look at its teeth. Surprisingly enough they are not pointy at all, more than anything they look very much like Thorin’s. For a moment he is stunned, finding the situation both confusing and bothersome. His father could not possibly have lied to him, could he?

Once he has recovered from his discovery he decides to take a look at the halfling’s face, and once again uses the frying pan to get a few stray curls of hair out of the way. He cannot see much, as the creature is still having most of its face squished against the floor, but he sees a stumpy nose, thin lips and striking eyebrows. If he were to guess he would say the halfling is male, although, he is not entirely certain.

For a moment he finds himself simply staring at the intruder, trying to take in every detail of his features. Then the halfling lets out a pained grunt against the floorboards, and Thorin instantly smashes him over the head with the frying pan again.

Knowing for certain that the halfling is unconscious this time, Thorin dares turn his back on him for a moment to grab the satchel off the floor. The bag is small and made of leather; it must have been easy to bring it along when climbing the tower. Thorin considers giving it to his father once all of this is over, it would make a good and practical gift.

Inside the satchel he finds nothing but a glowing gemstone. It is quite big, and shines with a cold light – not unlike the glow of his beard. He stares at it for a long time, never having seen such a precious thing before. Then he realizes that the halfling will wake up sooner or later, and when he does Thorin should be prepared. With this in mind he puts the gemstone back in the bag, and then proceeds to hide it in a pot nearby.

Having dealt with that, only the problem of the halfling remains. Eventually Thorin decides to not leave the unconscious body out in the open. He will hide the intruder in the closet, and once his father returns he will reveal his accomplishment as a surprise. Surely this should prove, once and for all, that he is ready to take care of himself.

In the end he struggles to bring the halfling to the closet; he is much heavier than he looks, and Thorin accidentally drops him several times.

Seeing the intruder like this Thorin finds it rather silly to have been scared in the first place, and well, if he finds it rather fascinating to hold the halflings hand while desperately trying to make him fit in the closet, he blames it entirely on his curiosity; surely this would not be quite as exciting if he had encountered halflings before.

He barely has time to hide the intruder away until his father returns.

Thorin hurries to the window to let down his beard, and he is glad to hear that his father sounds quite happy, despite their previous discussion. “Oh Thorin, I have a big surprise for you.”

And Thorin actually finds himself laughing a little, not able to contain his merriment. “I do too.”

Father climbs through the window, graceful as always, and turns to him with a smirk. “I bet my surprise is bigger; I found parsnips! I was thinking we could make your favorite soup for dinner.”

Thorin smiles at that, because it is during moments like these that he is reminded that his father actually cares about him. Walking over to the closet he clears his throat, letting one of his hands rest against the wooden doors, as a reminder that he is strong; he is more than capable to venture outside.

“Father, I was thinking about what you said before…”

Thranduil does not let him finish. His previously open expression instantly turns harsh, and he stops unpacking the parsnips in order to stare at Thorin. “I hope, for your sake, that this is not about the stars.”

Thorin’s excitement falters a little at that, but he knows that he will be able to convince father, and so he refuses to back down. “Actually, it is. But father, you think I am not strong enough to handle myself, but what if I was able to prove that…”

Thranduil stalks across the room, towering above him and looking absolutely livid. “Thorin, you are not leaving this tower. _Ever_.”

It is said with finality, and Thorin finds himself speechless. For years he has been dreaming of the day when he would be old enough to go outside, he has thought that it would simply be a matter of time; that he eventually would get the chance to explore everything he has been reading about. But his father’s eyes are cold and determined. It is obvious that it would be pointless trying to change his mind.

For a moment he feels completely empty. His life will never begin, and he feels betrayed by Thranduil. Leaning against the closet he tries to think of something to say. A way to end the conversation without expressing too much animosity towards father.

And that is when he realizes that he might not need the help of Thranduil at all. There is a halfling in his closet, a halfling that, most likely, was hired to kidnap Thorin. In books kidnappers are usually greedy people, and perhaps, Thorin thinks, he could use the precious gem to bribe him. The halfling could bring him to the floating lights, and in return Thorin will return the glowing gemstone to him. It seems like a fair trade. The only problem is not having father interfere, but Thorin knows how to keep him away from the tower for a few days.

“Father, all I wanted to say was that I know what I want for my birthday.” He almost has to keep himself from smiling, because this plan is perfect. As long as the halfling is not too untrustworthy there is no way it could end badly.

Thranduil pinches the bridge of his nose, looking absolutely tortured. “And what is that?”

“A new chisel. Remember the one you got me a couple of years ago? It was very useful, and I thought that maybe it would be a better idea than going outside to watch the stars.”

At that father seems a lot happier, turning to Thorin with a thin smile. “Are you sure you will be alright on your own? It is a very long trip, almost three days’ time.”

Thorin bows his head, showing respect but also hiding his triumphant smile. “I know I am safe as long as I am here.”

“Good.” Thranduil comes up to him, kneeling for a moment to once again kiss Thorin’s cheek. “I will be back soon. I love you very much.”

Thorin follows him to the window and watches him descend; only saying his goodbyes once father is already on his way down. Lingering by the window he makes sure that Thranduil is out of sight, and then he rushes to the closet, barely able to contain his excitement. He is terrified, but he will make this work, somehow.

First of all he needs to make sure that the halfling cannot escape. It is quite troublesome, as he has neither rope nor chains in the tower. Looking around for a while – and finding nothing – he realizes that he will have to tie the intruder up using his beard.

Opening the closet he watches the lifeless halfling fall to the floor, and then drags him to father’s throne. Tying both arms and legs securely with his beard, Thorin hurries away the moment he is done, hiding in a corner of the room, watching the halfling from afar.

After a while it is obvious that he will not wake up of his own accord, but Thorin does not want to stand too close when he does. Instead he remains in the shadows, throwing books and pebbles at his prisoner until the halfling stirs and lets out a shaky breath.

Moments later the halfling tries to move his arms, only to realize that he is tied up. For a while he looks around the room, trailing all seventy feet of Thorin’s beard until his gaze finally settles on the corner where Thorin has been lurking.

“Hello?” His voice is quite mild, and not at all threatening. The halfling seems uncertain more than anything, and Thorin did not expect him to be quite so, well, _normal_. However, he cannot bring himself to reply just yet, and so he watches the halfling some more, how he tries to yank his hands free and almost topples the throne in the process.

“Is this… hair?” He looks scared, and outright disgusted, and so Thorin decides that it is time to reveal himself.

With the frying pan in a tight grip he steps into the light; weary as to what the halfling’s reaction might be. More than anything he still seems confused, but as he looks Thorin over his eyes widen a little.

“Struggling is pointless.” Thorin takes a few steps closer and points at the halfling with the frying pan, careful not to get himself tangled in his beard. “Who are you, and how did you find me?”

The halfling stares at him for quite some time, and then he clears his throat. “I know not who you are Master Dwarf, nor how I came to find you, but may I just say that you have the most stupendous beard. I may be but a simple burglar, but I know majesty when I see it, and…”

Thorin hushes the burglar by waving the frying pan in his general direction, and then takes another step closer – almost close enough to touch him. “Who else knows of my location, Master Burglar, and what do you want to do with my beard? Cut it? Sell it?” His questions almost end with a growl, and for a moment Thorin goes quiet, trying to get his temper under control.

The burglar looks absolutely stunned at that, and then he wriggles his fingers pointedly. “The only thing I want to do with your beard is to get out of it. Literally.”

Thorin is speechless; he never considered the possibility of the halfling not knowing about him or his beard. On the other hand, the burglar could be lying. “You do not want my beard?”

“Why on earth would I want your beard?” The burglar seems outright frustrated, and he keeps looking around the tower, as if he still hopes there will be some way for him to escape. “Look, I was being chased, I happened to find this tower, and I climbed up here to hide. That really is it.”

The burglar falls silent, and then he sits perfectly still for a moment, staring at the floor. “Oh. Oh no.” He starts yanking his bindings again, putting up enough of a fight to make the throne scrape across the floor. “Where is my satchel?”

Thorin smiles at that, proud that he was clever enough to hide it. “I hid it, Master Burglar. Somewhere you will _never_ find it.” Feeling more confident he circles the throne, enjoying the way the halfling stares at him in quiet disbelief. “I am prepared to offer you a deal, Master Burglar.”

“A deal?”

He grabs a hold of the throne and turns it slightly, making sure that the halfling is facing the wall. Walking up to the carven stone he points to one of his recent creations, the one depicting the floating lights. “Do you know what these are?”

The burglar looks unimpressed and huffs a sigh in response. “You mean the lantern memorial for the lost prince of Durin?”

And suddenly everything makes sense. For a moment Thorin forgets all about how he is currently having a burglar tied up in his tower; all he can think about is how the fiery red of the lanterns will spread throughout the night, and all those years he has been watching from his window.

“I knew they were not stars.” When he speaks it is nothing but a whisper. Trying to gather his thoughts he walks back to the throne, doing his best to act casual as he meets the burglar’s gaze. “Well, Master Burglar, tomorrow evening these lanterns will lights up the sky. I want you to act as my guide – to take me to see the lanterns, and back again. Then, and only then, will I return your satchel to you. This is my deal.”

The halfling sighs, seemingly having accepted the situation. “I do not think I can do that, you see, the Kingdom does not like me very much at the moment. I will not be taking you anywhere.”

Thorin groans, and then stands directly in front of the burglar. Leaning in, almost close enough for their noses to touch, he stares at him. “Something brought you here, Master Burglar. Call it what you will; fate; destiny…”

The halfling does not break eye contact, but he does interrupt Thorin to mention something about “ _a bear”_. Thorin pays his comment no mind, having grown tired of this discussion. “… so I have made the decision to trust you, and I am aware that it is quite a foolish decision, but trust me on this; you can tear this tower apart brick by brick, but you will never find your precious satchel without my help.”

The halfling snorts at that, his curly hair bobbing as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Let me see if I have understood this correctly. You want me to guide you on your journey to Erebor, we watch the lanterns, then I bring you back here, and you give me the satchel?”

Thorin is not quite sure what “Erebor” is, but he assumes the burglar knows what he is talking about. He nods solemnly to confirm the burglar’s words. “I promise.”

For a while they merely stare at each-other, and Thorin is still leaning in close enough to feel the warm huff of the burglar’s breath against his throat – his shoulder length hair falling like curtains around them. Finally the halfling sighs in defeat. “I will guide you. Now please, if you would release me.”

Thorin proceeds to untie his beard, and while doing so he can hear the burglar muttering to himself. _“This is not my day. I cannot believe flattery did not work.”_ He does not reply, but simply disentangles the halfling’s legs, stopping for a moment to curiously gawk at the hairy feet; that someone would choose to wander the forest without boots is astonishing to him.

After some time the halfling stops muttering and instead turns his gaze on Thorin, raising an eyebrow in question. “I am not quite sure what you are up to, Master Dwarf, but should we not get going?”

Thorin sputters at that and quickly rises to his feet. “We should.”

When the burglar climbs out through the window Thorin cannot bring himself to meet his eyes. For a moment he is left by the throne, barely able to comprehend what is happening.

From outside the burglar is yelling something inaudible, but Thorin suspects that he is growing impatient. Taking one final look at the tower he gathers his beard in his arms, picks up the frying pan and runs up to the window, tossing his beard over a beam close to the windowsill.

Hesitating for but a moment he then uses his beard to swing to the ground, only stopping his fall inches above the grass. It is so green – looks so very soft – and he dangles directly above it for a while, staring in awe. Then he lets go, tumbling down and touching dirt for the first time in his life.

Endless sensations hit him at once; the sweet and perky scent of flowers, birds singing, the summer breeze and the soft grass against the palm of his hands. He scrambles to his feet, walking around without really knowing where he is going. Close by the tower is a river that he has always watched from afar, and now he can listen to the water tinkling as it rushes by, see how the stones glimmer below the surface.

Completely forgetting about the burglar he keeps walking, eventually running through the curtain of vines father always walks through when leaving the tower.

Thorin has never really been able to run like this; not without walls holding him back; not with the knowledge that he could keep going until he collapses from exhaustion. His heart is beating like a heavy drum, and when he takes deep breaths even the air seems different. The forest is all around him, and after a few more steps he lies down on the mossy ground, looking up at the pale blue sky.

 “I cannot believe I did this.” It is nothing but a murmur as he catches his breath, reaching towards the sky with a trembling hand to trail the outline of the clouds high above.

For a moment he feels no doubt, but as he calms down the worries come creeping back like whispers in the dark. He remembers everything father has been warning him about, remembers how father would let him sing every evening, and how they would sometime cook together. Thranduil has always been good to him, and what Thorin is doing right now is nothing less than betrayal.

“Father would be heartbroken.” He keeps muttering to himself, as if putting his thoughts into words would help bring him clarity.

By the time the burglar catches up with him he is sitting with his head in his hands, seriously contemplating going back to the tower. His father has always kept him and his gift safe, and he trusts Thorin to understand the importance of that – but instead Thorin decides to run away with a stranger, just because he wants to watch lanterns. No son should betray his father’s trust like that.

“I cannot help but notice that you seem a little conflicted.” The burglar speaks mildly, and by the sound of it he is standing close nearby. Thorin could not hear him approach, but perhaps he was too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay attention.

The halfling sighs, a little too loudly and dramatically for it to be natural. “An overprotecting father, a forbidden journey… these things should be taken seriously. If you wish, I will take you back to the tower; it is understandable if you would want to back out of our deal.”

“No.” Thorin rushes to his feet at that, bringing up the frying pan and glaring at the halfling. “No, I will not let the paranoia of my father stop me from making this journey.”

“Oh, save me from the stubbornness of dwarves!” The burglar throws his hands up in frustration. “What is it going to take to get my satchel back?”

Thorin is about to retort, but the bushes nearby starts to rattle, and he instantly grows silent, backing away until he is by the halfling’s side. With the frying pan in a tight grip he leans in close, his voice nothing but a whisper.

“We are being watched.” His voice falters as he speaks, but he does not bother to try to keep a façade of courage up. He knows that the world is full of dangers – his father has told him so. “Is it orcs? Dragons? Spiders?”

The bushes rattle one more time, and then a fluffy bunny reveals itself. For a moment Thorin simply stares at it, and then he is grateful for his beard, because otherwise his shameful blush would be painfully obvious.

“Careful.” The burglar whispers – his voice like a mild breeze – and Thorin is ashamed to admit it almost feels intimate. “I have heard these monstrosities can smell fear.”

Thorin backs away a few steps from the burglar, not really sure of what to say. Fiddling with his beard he tries not to think about how he has never before been so embarrassed.

“If you are sure you want to see the lanterns we should keep going.” The burglar seems thoughtful as he speaks, his eyes wandering between Thorin and the bunny.

Thorin nods at that, not trusting himself to say anything just yet. He feels like an absolute fool. Thankfully the burglar does not tease him any more for his reaction, but instead changes the subject.

“Are you hungry? I know a great place for lunch. It is not far from here.”

And while Thorin ate quite recently, he has read about how the halflings have an abnormal amount of meals per day – and he figures that eating might brighten the burglar’s mood – so he agrees.

When they walk he barely pays any attention to the path. He is much too occupied watching the wildlife they encounter, butterflies and all kinds of insects; he studies how plants look up close, and more often than not he will glance towards the canopy, as he never expected trees to be so overwhelmingly large.

He might just spend some time watching the burglar as well; his peculiar trousers that barely reaches his knees, his deep red coat, button-up vest and white shirt. It is fascinating how his clothes are in such a fine condition, while his hair is utterly disheveled. And his ears, they are quite unlike Thorin’s with their pointed tips.

Having walked for an hour or so they come across a cabin, and when the burglar stops in his tracks Thorin is quick to look elsewhere, careful not to be caught studying the halfling.

“Here we are, The Prancing Pony. I think you will like it. It is a very quaint place.”

Thorin is not sure what kind of clientele he expects from a place called _The Prancing Pony_ ; however, he is definitely surprised when the burglar opens the door and he finds himself in the middle of a company of rugged looking dwarves. Some of them are taller than him, some are shorter, but they are all armed and several have quite nasty scars covering their faces.

As they walk among the other guests Thorin grips his frying pan tight and wonders how on earth this could be considered “quaint”. If this is supposed to be a normal restaurant, then surely most of his father’s stories are true.

The burglar seems positively jolly where he leads Thorin along, gesturing around the place. “I know the smell is a little overwhelming, but do not worry, it is quite pleasant once you get used to it.”

From somewhere close to the bar Thorin hears one of the dwarves mention his beard. Thinking about it, many members of the company are staring at it with an interested gleam in their eyes, and so he quickly gathers it in his arms.

The burglar, on the other hand, seems to pay little mind to Thorin’s worries. Instead he has stopped in front of a burly looking dwarf; he is brawny and bald – with tattoos covering his scalp – and while he is not much taller than neither Thorin nor the burglar, he still seems to tower over both of them.

“Oh I am impressed, is that blood in your moustache, Master Dwarf?” The halfling even has the audacity to point at the dwarf’s face when asking the question, and the dwarf himself seems far from amused.

The burglar is about to say something else when the bald dwarf grabs a hold of him, and the rest of the company closes in on them quickly. One of the dwarves, a fairly young looking one with golden hair, holds up a poster. Thorin cannot see it properly, but he can make out the word _wanted_.

“It is him, I am sure of it!” The blonde dwarf exclaims, and the bald one offers a gruesome smile in return.

“Go find some guards, Fili. That reward is going to buy me a new axe.”

As soon as the blonde dwarf has left the bar the rest of the company grab a hold of the burglar. They all grip him tightly, twisting his hair and almost ripping his clothes with their giant fists, as they hold him down.

Thorin stares at them helplessly, thankful that the ruffians do not seem to have any interest in him, but terrified about what they might do with the burglar. Admittedly he does not know the halfling well, but he will be lost without him.

“Leave him alone!” Tightening his grip on the frying pan he hits one of the dwarves, a shorter one with a silly looking hat. “Return my guide at once!”

“Put him down!” He circles the group of dwarves, but no matter how hard he hits them they seem to pay him no mind. “Release him! How dare you? Do you lack all honor?”

Feeling desperate he returns to the bald dwarf, hitting him repeatedly over the head. “I do not know where I am, and I need the halfling to take me to see the lanterns. Do not take this from me; have you never had a dream?”

And he is uncertain whether it is his words, or the fact that he has been hitting the bald dwarf hard enough for the frying pan to get slightly dented, but the company all turn to him with wide eyes. The bald dwarf grabs a hold of Thorin’s beard and pulls him close until they are eye to eye, and for a moment he all but glares at Thorin, but then his expression soften, seeming almost kindhearted.

“I had a dream, once.” His voice is surprisingly gentle as he sits Thorin down at a nearby table. For a moment Thorin is scared, but out of the corner of his eye he can see the other dwarves release the halfling, and so he relaxes somewhat.

“When people see me they assume I am a vicious murderer – lacking both compassion and class – but I know what it is like to have a dream.” The dwarf turns to look at another member of the company, an older fellow with a white beard. When he turns back to Thorin it is with a gentle expression. “Ever since I was a child I have dreamt of playing the violin – to perform with my brother on the stages of Erebor.”

The bald dwarf seems far from finished, but he gets interrupted by one of his companions. A younger and quite merry looking dwarf sits down next to Thorin, smiling brightly. “I have always dreamed to make a love connection. I mean, I may lack a beard and my nose is much too small, but I am sure I could make someone really happy.”

This time the bald dwarf interrupts, draping one arm across Thorin’s shoulders as he points towards different members of the company. “Bofur wants to be a cook and Bombur wants to be a dancer. And just look at Bifur, he is already quite a skilled mime; we all have dreams, Master Dwarf.”

Thorin nods in encouragement, but takes a moment to look around the bar. He spots the burglar standing a few feet away, rolling his eyes and keeping an eye on the door. The bald dwarf seems to follow Thorin’s gaze, as he raises a giant axe to point at the halfling.

“What about you? What is your dream?”

The burglar twitches slightly, and then clears his throat. “I guess I would not mind a lush hill of my own – a nice place to be alone – and perhaps a nice accompanying garden.”

The dwarven company all roll their eyes at that, and turn back to Thorin.

“What is your dream, Master Dwarf?” They seem genuinely curious when asking the question, and Thorin cannot help but feel honored; these dwarves seem to care more about him and his dreams than Thnranduil ever did.

“I may have angered father by escaping from my tower, but I have always dreamt to see the floating lanterns gleam.” It is impossible for him to keep from smiling, and the company sighs happily around him. He bows his head a little to show respect, before speaking again. “Like all you kindly folks I have got a dream.”

Another fellow of the company – a short dwarf with grey, braided hair – is about to speak up, when the door is thrown open and several elves in uniform enter the cabin. Thorin has no idea what is going on, but before he has the time to react the burglar is by his side, dragging him along to hide behind the bar counter. For a moment they simply sit there, cowering as the elves search the place.

“Where is the burglar?” Thorin peaks above the counter only to discover that the elves have blocked all exits; there is no way they could reach the door without getting caught. An elven lady with red hair is pacing around the bar, glaring at the dwarves while she interrogates them. “Where is he?”

They will get discovered if they stay behind the counter, but Thorin sees no other options. He slumps down next to the burglar, staring at the floorboards and still holding on to his beard with both arms. Suddenly part of the floor disappears, revealing a trap door leading to a secret passageway. The bald dwarf leans across the counter, speaking softly as he urges them to enter the passage.

“Go, live your dream.”

At that the burglar straightens his waistcoat. “Thank you. I will.”

And while the bald dwarf does not reply at once he slaps the halfling on the back of his head, hissing “your dream is depressing, I was talking to the dwarf.”

Thorin smiles at that, hoping it is enough to show his gratitude as there is no time to talk. Following the burglar through the hole in the floor he hears the trapdoor close behind them, and he is thankful the burglar managed to bring a torch along.

“I must say, you were quite impressive back there.”

When he turns to the halfling it is only to see him watch Thorin with a pensive smile. “I did not expect you would be able to reason with them.”

“Neither did I.” Hearing the praise Thorin finds himself smiling again, and he is not sure if he likes how the burglar seems to be able to affect him so easily. He tightens his grip on the frying pan a little, thinking about how much he has been through since he left the tower. The world is eventful, and frightening, but most of all so very beautiful. Few things are what they first seem, and walking in the torchlight next to the halfling, Thorin is quite curious to learn more about his companion.

Clearing his throat he tries not to sound too interested. “So, Master Burglar, where are you from?”

The halfling glances at him, looking thoughtful for a moment before smirking. “I am afraid I do not have much to tell, however, I must admit you are starting to make me quite curious. I hope you do not mind me asking – if you want to see the lanterns so badly, why have you not gone before?”

Thorin stutters at that, not exactly sure how to respond. Perhaps he would think of an answer eventually, but they are interrupted as the cavern starts rumbling. Looking back he sees torchlight not far behind them; the red haired elf is in pursuit, accompanied by a burly bear.

Gathering his beard in his arms once more he is surprised to have the burglar help him hold it as they rush down the tunnel.

“Who are they?” He is out of breath, his voice gravely, but the halfling seems to have heard him just fine.

“They do not like me.”

While Thorin is growing tired of the burglar’s evasive manners, there is unfortunately no time to question him further. The passageway ends suddenly, and for a moment he is blinded by the sunshine. As his eyes adjust he realizes that they are at the edge of a cliff, not far from an old, wooden dam.

The elves and the bear are closing in, and looking around he realizes that two orcs are waiting for them at the foot of the cliff. Both of them look absolutely furious, and since they are armed – one of them with a hook for a hand and the other with sheets of metal embedded in his body – Thorin realizes that it is near impossible for him and the burglar to escape; he would prefer to stay as far away from those eyesores as possible.

“Who are they?” He points at the orcs, and the halfling cannot even bring himself to look bothered. Be shrugs and gives a tired sigh. “They do not like me either. Can we just assume that no one here likes me?”

And while Thorin would like very much to disagree with that statement, there is no time.

“Take this.” For lack of better option he hands the burglar the frying pan, and then grabs a tight hold of his beard. He has done this countless times, swinging around his tower when working on his carvings. Running to the edge of the cliff he takes a leap of faith, using his beard to latch onto the wooden structures of the dam and swinging far enough for the orcs to be unable to reach him.

In the meantime the burglar is busy taking on the elves, seemingly having no problem to knock them out with the frying pan. He turns to Thorin with a wink and a smile, waving the pan as if to show his appreciation. However, the next second the bear is upon him, roaring loud enough to send a deafening echo throughout the valley. The burglar shields himself with the frying pan, continuously evading the bear. But they are just by the edge of the cliff, and Thorin knows that it is just a matter of time until the burglar falls.

With the end of his beard still latched on to the wooden structures – just enough for the burglar to reach – Thorin tries to get the halfling’s attention. For a moment he seems all too busy keeping his eyes on the bear to notice Thorin, but when the frying pan is knocked from his grasp by a clawed paw he desperately starts looking around for a way to escape.

He does not hesitate for a moment, but jumps off the cliff and grabs a tight hold of Thorin’s beard. As he comes swinging down the orcs rushes toward him, roaring and with their weapons raised, but he is much too fast for them to reach him in time. Hitting the ground he falls over, tumbling to a halt at Thorin’s feet, the beard still tightly gripped in his hands.

At the top of the cliff the bear growls, starting to bash the wooden structures of the dam in anger. In a matter of seconds the water starts breaking through the massive planks, and Thorin finds himself stumbling as he desperately runs for cover. The burglar keeps up with him, running closely by his side and helping to carry his beard.

They reach a small cave nearby, and they have barely had the chance to enter it as the opening is plugged by a giant boulder. Thorin is unsure of where it came from, but he assumes that the water must have been powerful enough to cause quite a bit of destruction in the valley.

Unfortunately the boulder does cover the opening to the cave completely, and the water starts rushing in at a disquieting speed. They do not have the time to explore the cave very far, as the water is waist deep in but a moment.

The burglar comes to a stop, breathing heavily and looking around the cramped space with a haunted gaze. At first he starts pushing at the roof of the cave, frantically trying to find an area that will budge. There is no use, and he only ends up injuring his hands in the process – the rock cutting deep gashes across his palms.

Thorin stands by his side, struggling to keep his head up as the water weighs his beard down. For a moment they are silent, and then the halfling disappears into the dark water. Thorin watches as he dives beneath the surface twice more, before giving up and leaning back against the rock with a sigh.

And Thorin cannot accept that he will die like this. He has barely been away from the tower for a day – his journey was not meant to end this way. With the water now reaching his shoulders he takes a deep breath, but barely has the time to go below the surface before he is pulled back up by the burglar.

“There is no point. It is pitch-black down there.” His voice is surprisingly calm, and while he does not smile his expression is mild when he looks at Thorin. It is nice of him – he must be terrified too, and yet he tries to act comforting – but Thorin feels sick.

There are so many things he was going to do. He has only seen but a glimpse of the world, and it has been terrifying and inspiring and stunning. While he is proud to have at least escaped his tower before dying, he cannot find contentment in a death like this.

Clenching his fists he stares at the water, the sound of it tinkling against the stone walls of the cave echoing all around him. “I never thought I would die like this. Cowering, clawing for air. I…”

His voice breaks on a hitched breath, and it has been many years since he last cried. With his hair framing his face in a tangled, wet mane he does not care to hide his tears, they instantly blend with the water anyway.

"I am so sorry, Master Burglar."

The halfling turns to him with a conflicted expression. He then sighs, running a hand through the wet curls of his hair.

"Bilbo."

The word echoes in the cave, blurring together with the purling water. Thorin finds himself staring, as he has no idea what the burglar just said – it could be a strange, new language for all he knows.

"What?"

"My name is Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins." The water is reaching their necks by now, and meeting Bilbo's gaze it is obvious that the burglar is trying not to panic. "We are going to drown; you might as well know."

Thorin stutters, because he feels honored to have Bilbo trust him like this. In but a moment the cave will be completely submerged, and this will be his only chance to speak. Perhaps, he thinks, he will confess something of his own.

"I've got a magical beard that glows when I sing." His voice is like gravel, and this is the first time he has been able to tell anyone his secret. Watching Bilbo's stunned reaction he can feel his heart fluttering with relief... and then he realizes what he has actually said. He can feel himself grinning as he reaches for Bilbo's shoulder, nudging him with excitement.

"I've got a magical beard that glows when I sing!"

Bilbo merely stares at him, as if he is convinced that Thorin has gone completely insane. The cave is almost completely underwater when he takes a deep breath and manages to sing the first part of the incantation.

“ _All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost…_ ” And as the water swallows them both his beard starts to light up, the silvery gleam illuminating the cave completely. At first it seems like it is not enough – like there actually is no way out – but then he notices a current by the rock-strewn bottom of the cave, to where the end of his beard is being drawn. The burglar still seems caught between being mesmerized and terrified, and so Thorin does not count on him to do anything productive. He swims to the bottom of the cave, trying to move the rocks enough for them to get out.

For a moment it seems hopeless, but then the rocks start to move, and with the added water pressure they are flushed into a river in a matter of seconds.

Disoriented and breathless Thorin climbs out of the water, lying down by the river bank and enjoying the soft grass beneath him. Moments later Bilbo emerges, crawling ashore with wide eyes, his gaze never leaving Thorin’s face.

“Your beard glows.”

Thorin nods at that, relishing the fact that he is still alive – enjoying the sunlight more than he has ever done before.

“I did not expect that. Your beard actually glows.” He sounds absolutely exhausted, and slightly horrified. Looking him over Thorin notices the bleeding cuts on his palms, and he realizes that he could ease the pain.

“Bilbo.” It is the first time he has ever said the burglar’s name, but Bilbo seems to be too busy staring at his beard to actually notice. Thorin, on the other hand, will always remember this moment. “The glowing is not the important part.”

At that Bilbo opens his mouth to reply, but in the end he does not manage to speak. He merely gawks, and when Thorin gets up from the river bank and starts walking, he instantly follows.

Some time later they come across a great tree, and it is most likely the best place for a campsite they will find. Thorin orders Bilbo to stay put while he gathers some branches and lights the fire, and although the halfling keeps muttering almost inaudible curses about “ _stubborn dwarves_ ” and “ _no manners_ ” he does wait patiently until Thorin is done.

Once the fire is lit the skies have turned a deep blue color, and the stars are starting to appear. Watching them like this – seeing the vast enormity of the starlit night instead of but a part of it through a window – is breathtaking. For a while Thorin keeps glancing upwards, but when he remembers Bilbo’s pain he quickly forgets about the lure of the night sky.

Sitting the burglar down on a massive tree root not far from the fire, he runs his fingers through his beard, making sure that not too much dirt has gotten stuck throughout the day. Satisfied that it is fairly clean he then sits down facing Bilbo – holding his injured hands gently as he starts wrapping his beard around them.

“I cannot help but notice that you are being fairly cryptic as you wrap my hands with your magic beard.” Bilbo sounds a little panicked as he speaks, and his eyes are wide, somewhere between inquisitive and frightened.

Making sure that the beard is bound tightly Thorin turns to Bilbo with a thin smile, feeling quite nervous as he clears his throat.

“Promise me that you will not be scared.”

His words seem to have done nothing but worrying the burglar even more, and so he decides to just sing, and explain the results afterward.

“ _All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.”_ The cold glow lights up the night, slowly traveling the length of his beard and finally encasing Bilbo’s hands. As for the halfling, he is staring at Thorin; his eyes sparkling in the light.

Thorin keeps singing – his voice caring and deep as he imagines the wounds fading along with the pain. “ _The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.”_

Having finished the incantation he carefully removes his beard from Bilbo’s palms, revealing how there is now nothing but pale, smooth skin where the deep wounds once where. Bilbo’s lips fall open, and he stares at his hands in disbelief. Thorin cannot help but to smile; this is the first time he has shown anyone but father his gift, and he feels somewhat bashful.

“That is a very interesting beard.” Bilbo sounds out of breath when he speaks, still staring at his hands. When he finally looks at Thorin it is with wide eyes. “How long has it been doing that?”

Thorin sighs, not really meeting Bilbo’s gaze. “Since I was born. Father told me that when I was a child people tried to cut it, they wanted to take it for themselves. But once it has been cut it loses its power.”

Searching through his beard he eventually finds the pitch-black curl and shows it to the burglar. It is obviously different, not having a single strand of grey hair. “It is important to protect this kind of gift, and that is why father never let me… no. That is why I never left the tower.”

They sit in silence, and for a second it seems like Bilbo is about to reach for him, but then thinks better of it. His voice is hoarse, a careful whisper. “You never left that tower.”

He speaks slowly, as if every word is a realization. “And you are still going to go back?”

Thorin sighs, covering his face with his hands for a moment. The more he sees of the outside world the less he wants to return to the tower, but just thinking about abandoning his father overwhelms him with guilt. “At first it was my intention to do so, yes.”

“And now?” Bilbo moves closer at that, and Thorin tries not to think of how they are sitting so very near; how their legs are touching; how he can feel Bilbo’s breath; how there is nothing but honest curiosity and warmth in Bilbo’s eyes.

“Now I feel like the tower was nothing but an exile in poor lodgings. I am not sure if I wish to go back at all.” Saying it makes him feel ungrateful – like he is disrespecting his father – but meeting Bilbo’s gaze he finds himself relaxing and simply enjoying the halfling’s calm presence. He is lucky to have found someone with the patience to listen to his story – and all of the doubts and fears that his father has instilled in him.

“It was always so dark up there, and I have never really enjoyed heights.” Thorin twirls a few strands of his beard together while he speaks, needing a distraction as he describes the loneliness of the tower. “Being outdoors like this, seeing the fireflies light up the forest and how grand everything is, I realize how insular my childhood was. Father is a good person, but I was very lonely being locked up, and very much under his control – at times my upbringing felt almost claustrophobic.”

Bilbo does reach for him then, gently holding his hand, and Thorin stills completely. They sit in silence for a while, and then Thorin realizes that he will probably do something utterly foolish unless they keep talking.

“So. Bilbo Baggins?”

Bilbo snorts at that, shaking his head. “I will save you the story of Mr. Baggins. It is a quite boring tale…”

Thorin does not say anything, but he does give Bilbo a – hopefully – reassuring smile. Apparently it is all the encouragement he needs to tell his story, and Thorin gets the impression that it has been a long time since Bilbo shared this part of him with anyone.

“It all starts with a book, or perhaps I should say several. I spent most of my time living a quiet life in my parents’ old house, reading and dreaming of seeing the rest of the world – always liking the idea of adventures but never actually daring to have one of my own.” Bilbo turns to look at the stars for a while, his gaze distant, but he softly strokes Thorin’s hand with his thumb, as if to remind himself of the present.

“An old friend of the family came to visit one day, and he asked for my help. He needed a burglar to come along on a quest. I accepted the offer rather reluctantly, but once I was on the road I found it hard to return home – at first simply because of everything I got to experience, but eventually my old identity began to disappear. I was simply a burglar, and I still have a hard time imagining what my neighbors would think if I were to return like this.” Bilbo’s groans and then goes quiet for a moment, entwining their fingers and looking at Thorin with a wry smile.

“I do not think that the halflings who knew the old me would like for me to return like this, and I do not think that the people that know me simply as ‘the burglar’ would care much for my interests or my past.”

He lets go of Thorin’s hand at that, and rises to his feet. “I should probably get more firewood.”

As he starts walking into the forest Thorin realizes that this might be his only chance to comment on what Bilbo just told him.

“I care.” His voice is a little husky as he has been silent for quite some time, but he pays it no mind. “I think you are multifaceted, and that every aspect of you is intriguing.”

Bilbo turns to him at that, and he looks openly surprised. “Then you would be the first.” For a moment he is silent, looking Thorin over before giving him a warm smile. “Thank you.”

Thorin watches him as he disappears into the dark forest, his heart beating quickly. When he turns back to the fire, watching the glowing embers, it is with an almost involuntary smile on his lips. He cannot help but feel happy – there is no one he would rather have as a guide.

At first he does not notice the presence watching him.

“Finally. I thought he would never leave.” The voice is familiar, and Thorin is overcome with both fear and surprise. He turns around only to find Thranduil standing a few feet away, watching him from the shadows.

“Father?” His voice is weak, and he curses himself under his breath. He has faced ruffians and elves and bears, it is ridiculous that he should be frightened by his own father. “How did you find me?”

“It was quite easy. I simply followed the sound of complete and utter betrayal.” Father does not even look at him, but simply studies the rings on his fingers with a disinterested look. Thorin is used to this; his father does not yell when he is angry, instead he grows quiet and distant, making Thorin plead for forgiveness before lashing out at him.

“Father…”

Thranduil walks closer at that, leaning forward slightly and towering above him. “We are going home Thorin.”

At that Thorin snaps out of his fear, and even though he feels that begging is beneath him, he is willing to give it a chance; anything to be allowed to stay a little longer; to at least see Bilbo one last time. “Father, you do not understand. I have been on the most incredible journey, and I have seen and learned so much.”

Hesitating for a moment he is uncertain of if he should mention Bilbo, but since father has already seen the halfling it is pointless trying to pretend like he does not exist. “I even met someone.”

Father actually snorts when hearing him mention Bilbo, looking absolutely unimpressed. “I noticed. The wanted thief – you are making your father so proud, Thorin.”

Thranduil once again turns around and starts walking, as if he actually expects Thorin to follow him like a loyal pet.

Standing his ground, Thorin glowers at his father. “I think he likes me.”

Saying the words out loud is almost like a revelation, and Thorin can barely keep from smiling, despite the situation he is in. Father does not seem moved in the slightest though, and actually grabs a hold of Thorin’s beard, like he is going to physically drag him back to the tower.

“This is why you never should have left. Thorin, look at you. Your face; your manners; your ancient tunic; why would that halfling ever care for you?” Thranduil turns to him, looking at him expectantly – probably hoping that his words will be enough of a deterrent. “This romance is something you have simply invented. It proves that you are too naïve to make it on your own. Trust me – father knows b…”

But Thorin does not let him finish. With clenched fists he takes a step forward, making sure to look directly into his father’s eyes. “No.”

For a moment there is nothing but silence as they stare at each-other. Thranduil seems shocked, but then his features harden; his eyes like a winter storm. When he speaks it is with a dark whisper. “No?”

With but a few steps he is next to Thorin, his face twisted with an evil grin. “Oh, I see how it is. A few hours on your own, and you think you know best? Do you think this is all it takes to grow up?” He snickers, stroking Thorin’s beard for a moment before letting go, backing away from him and returning to the shadows. “Well, if you are so clever – if you truly trust him – then why do you not give him _this_?”

With a dramatic gesture Thranduil holds up the glowing gemstone, and Thorin cannot fathom how he possibly found it. He finds himself staring at the radiant stone, his heart full of dread. “This is his only reason for staying by your side; do not let him deceive you. Just give it to him Thorin, you will see.”

His eyes reflecting the cold light of the gem, Thranduil regards him with a sneer. “Go ahead, put him to the test. I am patient. I can wait.”

Throwing Thorin the gemstone he leaves quickly, disappearing into the dark. Watching his retreating form Thorin almost calls out – almost asks him to wait – but in the end he remains silent.

When Bilbo returns he still has the glowing stone in his hands, and he is still staring into the night, uncertain of what to do.

“Are you well?” Thorin flinches when he hears Bilbo’s mild voice, and quickly hides the stone in the pocket of his tunic. Turning around he sees the burglar adding sticks and branches to the glowing embers of the fire, and he take a calming breath before joining him.

“I am.” He does not sit too close to Bilbo, instead keeping a respectful distance. However, as soon as Bilbo is done with the fire he walks over to Thorin’s side, sitting down and leaning his head on his shoulder. The short, curly hair tickles Thorin’s chin, but he pays it no mind. Instead he wraps one arm around the halfling, finding comfort in the intimacy. After a moment of silence he feels calmer – confident that he has made the right decision.

“I was wondering, that song – how did you figure out it would trigger the magic?” Bilbo speaks quietly, his voice barely audible as the fire starts to crackle.

“My father taught me.” Thorin’s voice falters when he speaks, but if Bilbo notices he makes no comment.

“I enjoyed it.” The halfling almost sounds sleepy, and he reaches for Thorin’s beard, braiding a few strands together. “Do you know any other songs?”

And it would be impossible for Thorin to keep the joy from his voice, even if he tried. “Yes. There is an old dwarven song, and while father never let me read about its history, I have always felt like it speaks to me. It is called ‘Misty Mountains’.”

Bilbo murmurs something inaudible in reply, and watching the fire Thorin begins to sing, his voice a low baritone echoing throughout the forest. And perhaps, he thinks, perhaps he will be happy like this.

Once he has finished the song Bilbo sits up straight, looking around for a while before turning his gaze on Thorin. “We should probably sleep. Although Erebor is nearby it might not be easy to enter the city. As you know, they do not care for me much.”

Thorin agrees, and settles down on the ground next to the fire. Glancing at Bilbo he hesitates before speaking, as he knows not how to best speak his mind. “Perhaps we should lie close together. For warmth.”

The look Bilbo gives him is not quite mischievous, but definitely knowing. He lies down nearby, perhaps an arm’s length away, yet close enough to touch. Thorin watches the fire illuminate his quiet form – how the curls of his hair gleam of gold and his hand rests on the ground between them. Thorin reaches out for it, gently entwining their fingers, and Bilbo does not protest.

Despite all the troubles they have been through since leaving the tower, Thorin is happy, and this feels real. He cannot believe that Bilbo is simply deceiving him in order to get the gemstone. His mind is heavy with sleep when he makes his decision; he will give Bilbo the stone when they watch the lanterns. He would trust the halfling with his life – he will neither let his father’s words nor the gem poison their friendship.

The night is quiet around them, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire and Bilbo’s even breaths. Thorin falls asleep feeling at peace for the first time in years.

When he wakes up the next day it is because of a ground-shaking roar. Looking around he sees Bilbo being dragged away by the giant bear that pursued them at the cliff. Bleary-eyed he stumbles in the direction of the struggle, watching as the beast has sunk its teeth into the right leg of Bilbo’s pants, pulling him along despite the fact that the halfling is repeatedly kicking it in the face.

Catching up to them Thorin grabs a hold of Bilbo, trying to get him out of the bear’s grasp, and while the beast might be immensely strong Bilbo’s pants are not. They shred in a matter of seconds, sending Thorin and Bilbo stumbling away from the bear.

The beast shakes its head, momentarily confused, and then rushes forward with another roar, its eyes fixed on the burglar. Thorin steps in-between them with an authoritative yell, spreading his arms to block the monster from reaching Bilbo.

“Easy.” He stares at the bear, meeting its gaze and challenging it to stand down. “Easy. Calm down.”

The beast stands on its hind legs for a moment, as if trying to intimidate him, but he keeps eye contact, not backing away, and the bear falls down on all fours again with a disappointed growl. Taking a few steps forward Thorin reaches for it, careful not to surprise the animal. At first the beast avoids his hand, but eventually it allows him to touch its muzzle.

“That’s it, good boy.” He takes the final steps, standing close by the animal as its soft fur tickles his palm. Assuring himself that he is in control he stops petting the bear, instead pointing at the ground. “Now sit.”

At first the bear stares at him as if he is joking, and so Thorin repeats his command. For a moment the beast stubbornly turns to look the other way, but then it finally sits down.

Thorin rewards it by petting it some more, running his hands through the thick fur. “I am sure you are tired of chasing that mean halfling around, are you not?”

From somewhere behind them Bilbo mutters in protest, but he at least does not interrupt. The bear simply nods its head in reply, looking tired. “And I am sure those elven guards do not appreciate you truly, do they?”

And now Bilbo actually interrupts, coming to stand next to Thorin, staring at the animal. “Thorin, I am telling you, he is a violent, mean-spirited bear.”

At that the beast growls, turning a murderous stare on Bilbo – however, Thorin is quick to once again capture its attention. “Do not listen to him; it is obvious that you are a trustworthy companion.”

Petting the bear some more he notices a leather strap tied around its neck. Fastened to it is a nametag and Thorin reads it quickly before continuing talking to the beast. “Now, Beorn, I need you to listen to me. Today might be the most important day of my life, and I need you not to get the halfling arrested, at least not today. He is my guide, and he is going to take me to the floating lights.”

Beorn regards him for a long time, looking very uncertain. Noticing the bear’s expression Thorin leans in closer, speaking in a whisper. “And it just so happens to be my birthday.”

Growling in defeat Beorn shakes his head, his brown fur rustling. He stops to stare at Bilbo, as if to warn him not to do anything stupid, and then he simply watches them, as if he is politely waiting for them to get on with their journey.

Turning to Bilbo Thorin looks him over, being both thankful and disappointed to see that his pants did not get completely torn to shreds. Clearing his throat he meets Bilbo’s gaze, hoping that the halfling did not pay enough attention to notice his lingering stare. “Shall we get going?”

Bilbo merely nods in reply, and they walk side by side through the forest, Beorn following not far behind. It is a sunny morning with clear skies, and Thorin does not know what awaits him on the other side of the woods. He has never actually seen a town except for the illustrations in his books; the more he thinks about it the more nervous he feels.

He does not have to wait long until the trees clear, and they start walking along a pathway leading up to an impressive mountain. There is a bridge leading up to a mighty gate in the mountainside, with two giant statues on either side of it. It is a breathtaking sight, and Thorin slows down a little, for the moment feeling content to watch the city from afar.

Beneath the bridge is a lake, crystal clear and reflecting the majestic stone carvings. The city itself is tiny and seems to rest on the mountainside, but Thorin suspects that most of it is hidden within the mountain; he has read many stories of the dwarven mines, and there is a longing in his heart to finally see them in person.

He must have stood still for quite some time, as Bilbo grabs his hand and gently pulls him along – and they are finally approaching the gates of Erebor. Despite the fact that Thorin has never been to the city before, he feels as if he has just returned home. He watches the huge statues of dwarven kings in breathless wonder, and then hurries along through the gate, stumbling as if he has only just learned to walk.

There are dwarves and elves and humans and halflings everywhere, seemingly preparing for a celebration of some kind. Getting lost in the crowd Thorin tries to gather up his beard, but he is quite unsuccessful until Bilbo appears by his side, quickly helping him hold all seventy feet of it.

“This could be quite troublesome.” Bilbo’s muttering seems to be meant for no-one in particular, and he stares at Thorin’s beard for a moment before looking at him with an inquisitive expression.  “Would you mind if I braided it?”

Thorin is unable to reply at first, stuttering helplessly. While he has not grown up with dwarven customs, he knows that it is considered very intimate for someone to be allowed to braid a dwarf’s beard. For a moment he looks Bilbo in the eyes, trying to figure out if the halfling knows about this – he most likely does, but if so his expression reveals nothing.

In the end Thorin merely nods his consent, and Bilbo leads him to an alleyway where they can sit in peace. Beorn still follows them loyally, and while the bear keeps throwing dirty looks in Bilbo’s direction he does not attack him.

When they were first approaching the city Thorin worried that the inhabitants would be scared of the bear, but this far no one has even batted an eye. He assumes that it has something to do with the nametag, and that perhaps the bear is usually working with the elven guard that pursued Bilbo earlier.

Leaning back against the cool wall of a nearby house Thorin watches Bilbo as he uses his fingers to comb through the length of his beard. The hairs are rough, but Bilbo seems to pay it no mind. He works efficiently, separating wisps of hair and starting to braid them together.

Thorin finds that watching Bilbo like this – on his knees and fully concentrated on his task – is very soothing. Beorn regards them with mild interest as Bilbo works through his beard, weaving together thin and thick braids, creating an interwoven pattern of plaits. When it seems like he is almost done the bear rises to his feet, leaving them alone for a moment, and when he returns he drops a bouquet of flowers by Bilbo’s side.

“Do you want me to…?” Bilbo seeks Thorin’s gaze for approval, and Thorin must admit he feels rather silly when nodding in agreement. On the other hand, he has already seen many dwarves with all kinds of jewelry and decorations in their beards, and he figures that flowers would be considered acceptable too.

Placing the delicate flowers among the braids, Thorin’s beard is soon a patchwork of dark and silvery hairs with flecks of blue forget-me-nots, the lilac of irises and the white of daisies. He has never thought to decorate his beard on his own, and looking at it now he wonders why. Rising to his feet he looks down at the sophisticated work, lacking the words to express how thankful he is, but turning to Bilbo he realizes that perhaps there is no need to speak, as he finds the burglar looking him over with a smile on his lips – a warm expression leaving crowfeet by the corner of his eyes.

 “Let’s explore the city.” Bilbo offers his hand, and Thorin accepts it in a heartbeat, letting Bilbo lead him out of the alleyway. Beorn follows, keeping his distance but always keeping them in his sight.

They spend the day walking the paths of Erebor, and whenever Thorin thinks that the city could not possibly reach further into the mountain they always seem to find a new road to follow.

Wandering through the forges Thorin is amazed to watch his kinfolk work, smelting metals and efficiently transporting them through the enormous room. He watches solid gold turn to liquid, and he wonders how close he could get without being hurt.  There is something about the gleaming metal, he feels almost as if it is calling him – but Bilbo moves along before he has the chance of getting any closer, and Thorin faithfully follows him, not wanting to lose his friend in the crowd.

Entering a library Bilbo gathers a few books, full of maps and poetry and history. They find an empty room a few stories up, and sit down on the floor, reading for hours. It is a weird feeling – to be educated about his own race, his own people – but the more Bilbo reads to him, the more he feels at home within the city walls.

Eventually Bilbo agrees to find a map of his home region, The Shire. He describes the luscious hills where the halflings live; how they spend much of their lives working the lands, and how they are passionate about good food and pipe weed. As he speaks, Bilbo’s eyes grow distant, and there is a sad smile on his face as he describes the garden he used to have. Thorin finds himself tracing the flowers in his beard at that, thinking about how much Bilbo has sacrificed to live the kind of life he does now.

Their studies are disturbed by a bell ringing outside, and they decide to leave the library, Bilbo leading him towards the marketplace in front of the royal halls. Beorn still follows them, waiting by Thorin’s side as Bilbo disappears into the crowd, looking to buy something to eat.

For a moment Thorin obediently stays where Bilbo left him, but after a while he is too intrigued by the celebrations to stay put. Walking along the walls surrounding the royal halls he comes across a mosaic portraying the royal family. The king is a one eyed man, perhaps of Thorin’s stature, with a bushy grey beard and tattoos on his forehead. The queen has a neatly styled, black beard with beads entwined in the intricate braids, and her eyes are a clear shade of blue. They are standing side by side in front of a throne, holding their young princeling; a tiny creature with a black and silvery beard, and blue eyes. And for the longest time Thorin cannot tear his gaze from the image, as there is something strangely familiar about it. Eventually he does though, only lingering for a moment to stare at the throne, and how a glowing gemstone rests like a crown on top of it. He cannot be certain, but the gem reminds him of the one Bilbo brought to the tower – the one Thorin now carries in his pocket.

However, he cannot remain by the mosaic. Many dwarfs from the crowd are gathering to look at it, whispering well-wishes as they leave small gifts beneath the image. As he turns and walks away he overhears a conversation about the lost princeling, but before he has the time to find out more Bilbo reappears by his side with a smile, holding pieces of bread and a pint of mead.

“Shall we?” And Beorn walks ahead of them this time, clearing a path until they find a place between two stands in the marketplace, where they can eat undisturbed.

Tasting the mead Thorin is surprised by the sweet undertones, and he glances at Bilbo, realizing that his friend has been studying his reaction closely. “Do not worry. It is delicious.”

Bilbo laughs a little at that, sounding relieved more than anything. They eat in silence from that moment on, watching as a couple of dwarven musicians enter the marketplace, setting up their instruments with great care. Few people in the crowd dance as the music echoes throughout the nearby alleys, but they do gather around the musicians, smiling and clapping along.

Drinking more of the mead Thorin notices he foam getting stuck in his beard, and attempting to remove it discreetly proves difficult. When Bilbo notices his struggle he hands Thorin a piece of cloth, and it is only when Thorin has wiped his beard clean that he notices the embroidered patterns on what he first thought was a napkin.

“I was going to give it to you later, but it seemed more useful like this, than simply being a token to remember this day.” Studying Thorin for a moment Bilbo moves a little closer, tracing the patterns on the cloth. “It is the crest of the Line of Durin – the royal family of Erebor.”

Thorin is once again reminded how out of touch he is with this world. Surely a dwarf his age is expected to know of the dwarven rulers in Erebor? Thinking about it he is confused as to why his father has never educated him on such matters, but he decides not to linger on such thoughts, and instead puts the cloth in his pocket, smiling fondly.

“Thank you.”

They sit in silence for a while longer, watching the crowd and listening to the constant buzz of voices all around them. Thorin can barely bring himself to eat as he slowly pieces everything together; how there is so much more to this than the floating lanterns; how the inhabitants of Erebor yearly hold a celebration – and mourning – for their lost prince. He sees both sorrow and hope in the crowd, as if the festivity would somehow bring the heir of the throne back to them. Whatever happened to the prince, Thorin is certain that his captors would not let him out of their grasp so easily.

Bilbo reaches for him after a while, and when Thorin turns to him he is met with an inquisitive smile. “Would you like to dance?”

Thorin can actually feel his mouth opening in surprise, and he looks around, listening to the music closely. It is upbeat, careless and free, and while it seems perfect to dance to, he is uncertain whether or not he would actually know what to do. “I do not dance.”

“Then let me teach you.” Bilbo takes his hand, leading him towards the musicians and Thorin ends up following without protest – his curiosity greater than his fear of making a fool of himself.

Turning to stand in front of him Bilbo is a few inches shorter, having to glance upward to meet Thorin’s eyes. He takes Thorin’s hand, putting his other hand around Thorin’s waist, before starting to move in rhythm with the music. As they start swirling around the marketplace Thorin finds that it is not very hard keeping up with the merry tune, at least not when Bilbo is there to guide him.

Soon enough they are joined by both dwarves and elves and halflings, everyone changing dance partners every so often and clapping along with the music. When he is separated from Bilbo and ends up dancing with an elf instead Thorin is not too bothered, but he keeps his eyes on his friend until they are finally reunited again.

By the time the song ends they come to a full stop, still holding each-other close, and Thorin cannot bring himself to tear his gaze from Bilbo’s face. He feels as if though he has gotten to know his kindhearted soul and warm eyes so very well, despite the fact that they have only known each-other for a short period of time. Bilbo is breathing heavily, and only breaks their eye-contact for a moment as his gaze wanders to Thorin’s slightly parted lips.

It seems like the perfect moment to do something – to express his gratitude, or perhaps… but night is already setting, and Bilbo leans in close, whispering for Thorin to hurry to the lake.

They rush through the city side by side, Beorn barely keeping up, and Thorin is almost too out of breath to speak. “Where are we going?”

Bilbo does not look at him, nor does he answer; instead he keeps running until they reach the docks by the lake. Despite not knowing what his friend has in mind, Thorin decides to follow him without question, and when Bilbo indicates for him to get into one of the boats he does so.

Beorn is left on the docks, and at first the bear is uneasy, but Bilbo exchanges a few words with him before they unmoor, and at that the animal seems much calmer. For a while Thorin sits in silence, alternating between watching the stars above and Bilbo steering the boat. Bilbo does not seem to notice that he is being watched, but when he turns to Thorin it is with a grin.

“Since this is such an important day to you, I figured that we should get the best seats.”

Looking back towards the city Thorin has yet to see any lanterns, but Erebor is well-lit, and casts a brilliant reflection in the surface of the lake. He leans across the railing of the boat, letting his fingertips stroke the water only to send shimmering ripples in all directions.

Once the boat lies still Bilbo comes to sit next to him, close enough for their legs to touch, and he nudges Thorin softly. “How are you feeling?”

Thorin laughs – a breathy, nervous sound. “I have been looking out that window for almost fifty years, dreaming about this moment.” He turns to Bilbo with a searching gaze, finding comfort in his presence. “I cannot help but dread it will not be everything I dreamed.”

“It will be.” Bilbo’s voice is firm, as if there is only one possible outcome. He reaches for Thorin’s hand, smiling reassuringly and entwining their fingers.

“And what if it is?” Thorin turns his gaze to the stars, and he sometimes feels overwhelmed by how immense the world is. His dreams seem quite insignificant in comparison to the vastness surrounding him. “What then?”

“That is the beauty of it.” Bilbo speaks with such sincerity that Thorin has to turn back to him, looking into those kindly eyes. “You get to go find a new dream.”

For a moment Thorin hesitates, knowing what he wishes to say but unsure of if he dares to. Though, before he gets the chance of putting his thoughts into words, he notices a gleaming reflection in the surface of the lake.

Turning his gaze towards the night sky there is a single lantern rising from Erebor, followed soon enough by hundreds, perhaps thousands. Stumbling to the bow of the boat he holds onto it, mesmerized by the golden light.

It is a quiet evening, interrupted neither by wind nor a light breeze. The lanterns rise and fall, trailing invisible paths through the air, sometimes descending so low as to almost touch the water of the lake. In but a few minutes they are surrounded by the frail lights, and Thorin takes a deep breath, feeling completely at peace.

For so many years he has been but an outcast, watching from the windows – outside looking in. To actually be part of the world, to share in its wonders with Bilbo by his side, he could not be happier. He does not long for the tower, does not regret his decision; it is now clear to him that he is where he’s meant to be.

Turning towards Bilbo he is surprised to find his friend holding two lights of his own, offering Thorin one of them with a smile.

And Thorin cannot be by his side fast enough, sitting down next to him and accepting the lantern. It is light in his hands, and for a moment he looks at the tiny fire within, captivated by how something so small can rise so high.

They let go of their lanterns, watching them soar, and Thorin feels as if he is part of this world, as if a small part of this celebration could be meant for him – but he does not linger on such thoughts. There is something much more important at hand. The gemstone rests heavy in his pocket, and he reaches for it, knowing that his hesitation is easy to see as he turns to Bilbo.

“I have something for you, too.” Holding out the stone he notices that while Bilbo’s eyes widen, he does not reach for it. “I should have returned it sooner, but I was… uncertain. Do you know what I mean?”

Bilbo grins, accepting the stone but barely paying attention to it as he places it on the deck of the boat. “I think I am beginning to.”

Taking both of Thorin’s hands in his they simply look into each-other’s eyes for a moment, as if to make sure they have understood the other’s intentions. And then Bilbo caresses his cheek, his fingers tangling with Thorin’s hair. “All that time, never truly seeing…” his voice is but a murmur, and his gaze wanders from Thorin’s eyes, to his lips, and back again.

Leaning in closer comes natural, with Bilbo’s fingertips stroking his neck – the touch gentle and calming. Thorin closes his eyes as he can hear Bilbo’s gasp, his breaths nothing but hot puffs of air against Thorin’s lips.

And then Bilbo freezes. Sitting absolutely motionless he is still holding Thorin, but he seems distracted. When Thorin opens his eyes he notices how Bilbo is not looking at him anymore. His gaze is distant, and it takes a while for him to notice Thorin watching him.

“I am sorry.” His voice is quite unhappy when he finally speaks, and he keeps glancing between Thorin and the gemstone he previously seemed to care little of. “Everything is fine, but I fear there is something I need to take care of.”

Thorin cannot bring himself to speak as Bilbo puts some distance between them, going to stand by the helm. Instead of bringing the boat to the docks of Erebor he steers it towards the opposite side of the lake, where the forest is just by the edge of the water.

They sit in silence, and Thorin is much too busy trying to understand what is happening to be bothered by the quietness. Whatever is going on it must be important, and surely Bilbo has his reasons for not telling him about it? Surely this will be over soon, and they will have the rest of the night together?

Reaching the lakeside the boat comes to a stop, and Bilbo scoops up the gemstone from the deck, jumping ashore. Turning to Thorin it seems as if he is trying to be reassuring, but his expression betrays him. He seems both jittery and nervous.

“Could you wait for me?”

Standing up in the boat, the sudden motion rocking it slightly, Thorin finally finds his words. “Can I not come with you?”

Bilbo shakes his head, looking genuinely upset. “I am afraid not. But do not worry, I will return shortly. Please, wait for me.”

“As you wish.” He speaks with hesitation, but remains in the boat, watching Bilbo walk away with the gemstone. There is a chill in his heart, perhaps a warning, but he reminds himself that he trusts Bilbo – because he does truly trust him – and Thorin is ashamed of the fact that he would doubt him for even a moment.

Bilbo quickly disappears into the fog. For a while Thorin can hear the clatter of rocks as he walks across the shore, but then there is nothing but silence. It is deafening, and he needs something to do. He leaves the boat, deciding to stand close by it instead. The lake has lost its appeal now, and he prefers the steady ground.

For how long he waits he is not sure, but he is leaning against the bow of the boat, humming to himself, when a silhouette appears in the fog not far away. It seems a little too tall to be a halfling, but he assumes his eyes are playing tricks on him; no one but Bilbo would be here at this hour.

“I was starting to think you ran off with the gemstone and left me.” His relief is obvious when he speaks, but he does not care if Bilbo notices. He is simply happy that they are together again, and that his fears were nothing but paranoia.

At first there is no answer, but as the silhouette makes its way through the fog Thorin realizes that it is not Bilbo at all. The orcs that pursued them earlier stand before him, their gazes fixed on his beard.

The orc with metal plates embedded in his body is the one to speak first, his voice hoarse and cruel. “Oh, but he did leave you.”

And Thorin is nothing but anger as he spits at their feet, clenching his fists and glaring at them. “I do not believe you.”

The orc with a hook for a hand gestures towards the lake, the smirk on his face revealing sharp teeth. “See for yourself.”

Despite not wanting to turn his back on the orcs for a second, Thorin does look. The fog lies heavy across the lake by now, but he does see a boat leaving the shore, and the unmistakable silhouette of a halfling by the helm.

“Bilbo.” At first it is nothing but a whisper, not even meant to be said out loud – he is simply too overwhelmed to stay quiet. Still hoping that this is somehow a trick he takes a few steps into the water, his gaze not leaving the boat.

“Bilbo!” His yell echoes across the lake, but he gets no reply. The water is already soaking through his boots, chilling him to the core. He stands by the lakeside, shaking, when the orcs come to stand on either side of him, their whispers rough and unkind. 

 “It was a fair trade. A gemstone, for the dwarf with the magic beard.” The orc with a hook for a hand towers above Thorin, reaching out to touch his chin. “How much do you think someone would pay to stay young and healthy forever?”

Thorin turns to run before they are done speaking. There is no way he could fight them without a weapon, and he doubts he will even be able to outrun them – at least not for long. Too busy looking around for a place to hide, he does not notice the low reaching branch, and his beard instantly gets caught, throwing him to the ground. He struggles to get up, to free his beard from the whisk, even though he knows that it is hopeless.

When the sounds of fighting break out directly behind him, he is still pulling on his beard, but he slows down when he hears two loud thumps – of what must be bodies hitting the ground. For a moment there is nothing but silence, but then a familiar voice calls for him.

“Thorin?” His heart almost skips a beat as he recognizes father’s voice.

Knowing that he is safe he takes his time to untangle his beard, and then walks back to the shore, just in time to see father sheath a long sword. Both orcs are lying on the ground, beheaded, and as soon as Thorin is certain they are dead he turns to Thranduil.

“Father. How did you find me?” His voice is unsteady, and he does not attempt to hide it; he has been a fool.

“I was worried.” For once his father is neither angry nor sarcastic. He simply strokes Thorin’s cheek, his eyes wide with concern. “I followed you, and I saw those monsters attack you.”

Thorin cannot remember the last time father hugged him this way, but now Thranduil gathers him in his arms without hesitation. For a moment they stand completely still, Thorin holding on tightly to father’s robes. “Let’s go, Thorin.”

Putting some distance between them father starts walking, like always expecting Thorin to follow, and this time he is ready to do so. But for a moment he hesitates, turning towards the lake and feeling weak for doing so.

The boat has almost completely disappeared into the fog, and he can no longer see Bilbo. Noticing father by his side Thorin’s voice is nothing but a broken whisper. “You were right, father. You were right about everything.”

There are tears in his eyes, but his father does not chastise him for it. Instead he puts a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, starting to lead him away from the lake. “I know.”

They walk for several hours, following a completely different path than the one he traveled with Bilbo. Thorin tries to keep his mind off the halfling, but the flowers are still entwined in his beard, with their promises of faithfulness and first loves and reminiscence. His emotions are not within his control, as he both wishes to tear the flowers and braids to shreds, while also wanting to preserve them forever – a precious and painful memory.

Reaching the tower he is surprised when father leads him to the back of it, revealing a doorway with seemingly endless spiraling stairs. By the time they reach the top Thorin’s head is spinning – the thought had never occurred to him that there would be another entrance to the tower. Any other day he would have questioned his father – asked why he would have kept the stairs hidden from him all this time – however, he is tired and his heart is aching. In this moment he has no one but Thranduil, and Thorin does not want to anger him.

His father leads him to his room, gently sitting him down on the bed. Methodically he starts undoing the braids in his beard, plucking the flowers out and placing them on the floor. Thorin does not protest, but simply watches his father’s progress. It is tedious work, and by the time his beard has been completely cleaned, dawn is already upon them.

“There, it never happened.” Thranduil rises to his feet, bringing the flowers along with him. On his way out of the room he stops by the door, turning to face Thorin. “I really did try, Thorin. The world is dark, selfish and cruel – if it even finds the slightest ray of starlight, it destroys it.”

And while father’s words are harsh, he does seem surprisingly compassionate. Thorin watches the door close, and then lies down on the bed. He has spent the entirety of the night ignoring any thoughts of Bilbo and his journey, but in his loneliness the memories come rushing back.

He thinks of the company of dwarves at the bar, and how they were all friendly despite their threatening exterior. He remembers Beorn, the ill-tempered but kindhearted bear, and he thinks of when the dam bursts – how he almost drowned in that cave, and how he learned Bilbo’s name.

Once he has thought of the halfling it is pointless trying to hold back. Hundreds of details flood his mind. The crinkles that would appear around Bilbo’s eyes whenever he smiled, the warmth in his voice and the way he would touch Thorin softly.

His heart aches, thinking back on what he now knows was nothing but deceit, and it is in his anger that he starts rummaging through his pockets, finding the piece of cloth Bilbo gave to him at the marketplace. His first thought is to rip it apart, but he cannot bring himself to do so. The fabric is soft in his hands, still stained with mead, and he lies down on his bed, holding it above his head and looking at the crest.

It is by pure coincidence that he turns to look at his wall for a moment, only to notice a design similar to the crest embroidered on the cloth. Just like the rest of the tower he has spent years carving the stone of his room, and taking a closer look at his designs he realizes that the crest of Durin appears several times throughout the room. It should be impossible, as he only learned of the crest when Bilbo told him about it, and yet he seems to have known it all his life.

Memories start coming back to him, different from before. He thinks of the mosaic by the marketplace, and how the missing princeling had a thick beard with streaks of grey. He thinks of the gemstone Bilbo ran off with, how it very much resembled the one from the throne of Durin with its mesmerizing light.

He thinks of how he felt more at home in Erebor than he does in his father’s arms, and he remembers bits and pieces of conversations he heard throughout the day he spent in the city. Mentions of how the prince must have grown into a fine young dwarf, having been gone almost fifty years – how it was admirable for the royal family to keep hoping after all this time.

Putting it all together – finally realizing what has been on his mind throughout his journey – completely overwhelms him. Thorin gets up from his bed, only to fall to his knees, knocking a chair over in the process, and he remains on the floor for quite some time, taking deep breaths while trying to clear his mind.

Once he gathers his courage and rises to his feet, he is not the same dwarf that left this tower for the first time merely a few days ago. He opens the door and walks into the main room of the tower, meeting Thranduil on the stairs leading up to his room.

“Thorin, are you well?”

“I am the lost prince.” Thorin finds himself mumbling in disbelief, staring at the elf that he for so many years called “father”.

At that Thranduil rolls his eyes, and it is quite clear that he did not hear Thorin, or else his reaction would have been much different. “Please speak up; you know how I feel about the mumbling.”

And Thorin does raise his voice at that, his words almost like a roar that echoes within the walls of the tower. “I am the lost prince, am I not?”

When Thranduil does not reply, but simply stares at him in shock, Thorin takes a few steps forward, glaring at him. “Did I mumble now, father? Or should I even call you that?”

Thranduil’s laugh is forced and without joy, and when he tries to smile it ends up looking like a scowl more than anything else. “Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?”

And Thorin steps even closer, determined not to be looked down upon. “It was all you. Throughout my life you have warned me of people that would use me – selfish creatures that would claim my gift as their own. I have spent all my life hiding from the outside world, when I should have been hiding from you.”

Having let go of all pretense of niceness Thranduil does not yell, but instead leans in close to whisper in Thorin’s ear. “If you leave me, there is nowhere for you to go. He will not be there for you.”

It is only at the mention of Bilbo that Thorin stops with his accusations, struck with the realization that Bilbo did not leave him voluntarily. What happened at the lake was Thranduil’s deceit – no one else’s. Remembering the beheaded orcs by the lakeside Thorin barely dares ask what happened to his companion.

“What did you do to him?” His voice is demanding, but wavers slightly when he notices Thranduil’s lips pull up in a smirk.

“That burglar will be hanged for his crimes.”

Thorin feels as if he has lost the ability to breathe. The memories of Bilbo’s smile; his dry sense of humor; his thoughtfulness; they are so recent, so very real – the thought that Bilbo will die simply because he helped Thorin is devastating.

“No.” The word almost sounds like a growl, and this time Thranduil does smile fairly sincerely, reaching out to stroke Thorin’s cheek as he has done so many times before.

“All is well, son. Everything is how it should be.”

But Thorin will never trust such empty promises again. He grabs a hold of Thranduil’s wrist, glaring at him. “No! You were wrong about the world, and you were wrong about me – and I will never let you use my beard again.”

Thranduil’s features harden at that, and he does not say a single word as he rips his hand from Thorin’s grasp, knocking over a nearby mirror in the process. Not caring about the shattered glass on the floor he is quick to grab a hold of Thorin’s beard, pulling hard in order to make him fall to the floor, and while Thorin did not expect to simply be let out of the tower, he did not expect violence either.

Disoriented he tries to stand, but Thranduil holds him down, tying his arms and legs together with the length of his beard. Whenever he tries to struggle against his confines there is a jolt of pain, and soon enough he realizes that there is no way for him to escape.

Thranduil leaves him on the floor, disappearing from Thorin’s field of vision. Hearing the rattle of chains he grows all the more desperate, screaming for help, despite knowing how far away they are from any kind of civilization – no one will hear him no matter how much noise he makes. And soon enough Thranduil is by his side, gagging him with an old rag and untying his beard only to put shackles around his wrists instead.

The chain is fastened around a support beam nearby, keeping Thorin far away from the window. He can do nothing but watch as Thranduil calmly collects some of their belongings, packing everything they would need for a long journey.

He keeps biting down on the gag, hoping to be able to rip it from his mouth somehow, but it will not budge. Kicking against the floor he only manages to rattle the chains, and the shackles scrape against his wrists without a hint of breaking open.

Thorin knows not how much time has passed when he hears the roar of a bear outside. Thranduil stills where he has been packing, unsheathing his sword and walking up to stand by the window.

“Thorin!” He instantly recognizes Bilbo’s voice, and is both overjoyed and terrified at once. He tries desperately to reply, but is silenced by the gag, only managing to make a few muffled noises. “Thorin! Let down your beard!”

Thranduil turns to Thorin with a gleeful smile at that, and when Thorin realizes what he is about to do, he tries to kick the elf – anything to keep him from luring Bilbo into the tower. However, there is not much he can do. Thranduil grabs the end of his beard, throwing it out the window without a word, and Bilbo starts climbing within seconds.

Reaching the window he is out of breath, but there is a smile on his face when he looks around the tower. “Thorin, I thought I would never see you again, I…”

Thorin tries to warn him – tries to urge him to get away from the window and the elf hiding in the shadows – but only manages to get Bilbo to do the opposite, turning his full attention on Thorin instead. The halfling stares at his chained up form, taking a few steps towards him without even noticing Thranduil. When the sword pierces through Bilbo – straight through his back and sticking out through his stomach – he stares down at the blade in shock.

Thorin screams, scrambling to reach his friend, but the chains hold him back. He can feel the metal slice through his skin – feel the pain around his wrists – but he does not care in the slightest. He needs to reach Bilbo’s side somehow; he needs to heal him before it is too late. He does not care what happens to him, as long as he can save Bilbo.

When Thranduil pulls out the sword it is with a wet sound, and Bilbo instantly falls to the floor with a groan, landing among the shards from the shattered mirror, his waistcoat already stained red. The elf seems to care little for him as he takes a step over the halfling, walking towards Thorin as he wipes the sword clean. “Now see what you have done, Thorin.”

Kneeling down to stroke Thorin’s cheek Thranduil gives him a thin smile. “Do not worry, son. Our secret will die with him. And as for us? We will go where no one will ever find you again.”

Thorin lashes out, trying to head-butt the elf, but the chains will not let him, and Thranduil seems to pay him no mind. Instead he opens a hatch in the floor that leads to the spiral stairs, only to return to Thorin’s side and unlocking the chains.

As soon as he is not tied to the beam Thorin starts struggling, trashing as much as he can – trying to get to Bilbo’s side. However, Thranduil is stronger, and he hauls Thorin along, dragging him across the floor towards the hatch.

“Enough, Thorin.” The elf’s voice is nothing but a command, and Thorin wonders how he could ever call this monster “father” – how he could ever trust a single word coming out of Thranduil’s mouth. “Stop fighting me.”

When the elf suddenly stops to yell his orders Thorin falls to the floor, not having expected the sudden halt. As the does the gag finally slips from his mouth, and he turns to Thranduil instantly. “No! For every second of the rest of my life I will fight you. I will never stop trying to get away from you. This cannot be undone – things will never be the way they used to.”

His voice echoes in the room, and when Thorin glances towards Bilbo he finds the burglar watching him – his whole body tense with pain, but yet there is pride in his eyes. It is all he needs to make up his mind. Turning to Thranduil once again he does not yell, but speaks with an even voice. “But if you let me save him, I will go with you willingly; I will never run; I will never try to escape. Just let me heal him, and we will be together forever. You have my promise.”

For a moment the elf regards him coolly, and then he swiftly unshackles Thorin. Within seconds he has Bilbo in chains instead, grabbing a hold of the curly hair to hold his head up. “Just in case you get any idea of following us.”

And then Thranduil takes a few steps back, and Thorin kneels by his friend’s side, caressing his cheek. “Bilbo. I am so sorry.”

At that Bilbo turns to him, his gaze already distant. He reaches for Thorin, but his hands are shaking, not able to hold on. “I cannot let you do this.”

Thorin is already covering the wound with his beard, and nothing could stop him from carrying through with the incantation. “And I cannot let you die.”

Having made sure that his beard covers the wound properly he meets Bilbo’s gaze again, trying to smile despite everything. “Trust me. All will be well.”

And Bilbo nods slowly, as if he can barely understand what Thorin is saying.

For a moment there is silence, as Thorin leans in, resting his forehead against Bilbo’s, and just as he is about to sing something sharp grazes his throat. The next thing he knows is Bilbo cutting through his beard, using a shard from the broken mirror.

Thorin stares at the now useless bundle of hair covering Bilbo’s wound, seeing how it turns pitch-black right before his eyes. Behind him Thranduil screams, and Thorin turns to see him stagger around the tower, head is in hands, wailing loudly. In the end the elf brings on his own demise, his long robes making him stumble and fall through the open window.

For a brief moment he considers rushing to the window, but when Bilbo coughs Thorin instantly turns back to him, only to see how both his shirt and coat are stained red as well. He is bleeding out quickly, and there is nothing Thorin can do to stop it.

“Bilbo, look at me.” He grabs a hold of the halfling, pulling his head into his lap; stroking his forehead, caressing his face, anything to make him open his eyes again. “I am right here, Bilbo, stay with me.”

When Bilbo speaks it is with an almost inaudible voice. Not strong enough to reach for Thorin he simply leans into his touch instead, his gaze soft as he looks into Thorin’s eyes. “I am glad to have shared in your perils – that has been more than any Baggins deserves.”

“No!” Thorin has to remind himself not to be too rough when he embraces Bilbo, clinging to him as if he could physically keep him out of death’s grasp. “There is more in you of good than you know; you are both courageous and wise. I beg of you, do not part from me.”

He cannot keep his voice from breaking, and when he lets go of Bilbo it is only to put enough distance between them to look at him. In the early morning light the halfling looks pale, unnaturally so. Still caressing his face Thorin notices how cold Bilbo’s skin seems, and he keeps helplessly trailing his fingers along Bilbo’s cheek, not knowing what else to do – hoping it is somewhat soothing.

 “You were my new dream.” Bilbo’s smile is both of happiness and regret, and once he has spoken his eyes fall shut, as if he cannot keep them open any longer.

“Stay with me Bilbo.” There is no response this time, Bilbo does not even stir. Thorin can feel his heart beating like a drum, the panic threatening to overcome him completely. “Please, I will sing to you.”

Bilbo’s eyes remain closed, and as far as Thorin can tell he is not breathing. Resting his head against Bilbo’s chest he does not hear a heartbeat. His eyes welling up with tears he cannot see clearly, nor can he bring himself to speak. For a moment he can do nothing but cry, clinging to the body of his friend.

Eventually Thorin finds his voice again, hoarse and broken. He sings the incantation, despite knowing it is useless. His breathing is heavy and the words flow together – pronunciation the least of his worries. But some part is him still believes – keeps hoping beyond hope – that this will somehow work. That Bilbo is still his to bring back.

Ending the song on a broken note he leans forward, resting his forehead against Bilbo’s once more. Cradling the halfling he weeps softly, not wanting to let go of the cold body, yet knowing that he will have to eventually; that there is no point to hold on to the dead this way.

At first there is a tingling sensation, and he knows that something has changed; he can smell it in the air. Opening his eyes to gaze at Bilbo’s tranquil features there is no difference at first, but then a light starts to spread – emanating from the wound.

White and blinding like stars during an autumn night it spreads beneath Bilbo’s skin, only to continue twirling into the open air, draping both of them in a silvery glow. Thorin recognizes the rush of his magic, but does not dare believe it has actually worked. His eyes fixed on Bilbo’s face he waits, barely noticing how he is holding his breath.

The light slowly dies down, and for a moment there is complete silence. Then Bilbo’s eyes flutter open, his gaze disoriented and tired. Letting out a pained sigh he tries to sit up, but Thorin holds him tightly, refusing to let him move before he has made certain that he is well.

“Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice is hoarse, barely a whisper, and Thorin can only just contain his joy hearing it.

“Bilbo!” The exclamation is nothing but a hitched breath, and he is once again caressing Bilbo’s face, stroking his cheek as if to make sure that this is real.

Blinking his eyes open Bilbo looks him over, his lips widening in a smile. “I am afraid I will have a hard time putting any flowers in your beard now.”

When he raises a hand to stroke Thorin’s chin, running his fingertips through the short beard that remains, Thorin cannot help but to shiver in pleasure. He lunges forward, gathering Bilbo in his arms and holding him close. For a moment they stay this way, and Thorin revels in Bilbo’s scent, breathing him in.

Separating to look at each other again Thorin grins, not able to keep his eyes from wandering to Bilbo’s lips. He has read of kisses many times, in poetry and fairytales and lyrics, but he has never kissed anyone before. There is uncertainty at the back of his mind, but he is too overjoyed to let it bother him.

Grabbing hold of Bilbo’s collar he brings their lips together, hoping that the scratch of his beard does not prove to be too bothersome. In but a moment he feels Bilbo’s nimble fingers at the nape of his neck, bringing him in even closer. Growing a little bolder Thorin brings his hands up, caressing Bilbo’s face, and when Bilbo’s tongue licks his lower lip, he opens his mouth with a content sigh.

It is frightening and wonderful and new, and he is still tentative when delving deeper into Bilbo’s mouth, really tasting him. There is no hesitation from Bilbo’s side – no sign of discomfort – so Thorin assumes he must be doing something right. Then Bilbo’s wandering hands come to frame his face, thumbs cupping Thorin’s jaw and allowing him to tilt Thorin’s mouth any way he pleases.

They part for air not soon after, Bilbo’s eyes never leaving his. “I owe you an explanation. There is so much I should tell you.”

His voice is sincere and husky, and Thorin finds himself beaming. What Bilbo says is true – they have much to talk about. However, this moment belongs to them, and they will have plenty of time for conversations later.

“In time.” It is nothing but a whisper against Bilbo’s lips, as Thorin places a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Bilbo gasps at that, his hands tangling with Thorin’s hair as he captures his lips once again.

Thorin cannot help but find it slightly ironic that he would find such joy within the confines of this tower. His heart is bursting with gladness knowing that there is a great world out there, and he will get to explore it with Bilbo by his side.  
Much lies ahead of him now. There is a kingdom waiting for his return, where a family he barely remembers awaits him. This is the moment his life begins, but he does not bother thinking about the future. All that matters is Bilbo in his arms; the way he tastes, his bruising kisses and his caring heart – the beginning of a new dream.

**Author's Note:**

> [Super-cute fan art by mischievingmagpie](http://mischievingmagpie.tumblr.com/post/71629278748/i-have-a-magical-beard-that-glows-when-i-sing-my)!
> 
> Also, it seemed fitting to end the story with the kiss in the tower. I might end up writing an epilogue, but I'm not making any promises.
> 
> Sometimes I write short things on [tumblr](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/) as well (but mostly I just cry about fictional characters).


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